


Don't look back, you're not going that way

by LackingBinary



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-17
Updated: 2016-10-17
Packaged: 2018-08-23 00:42:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8307226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LackingBinary/pseuds/LackingBinary
Summary: Rodimus picks up a mysterious alien object. Because Rodimus is more or less a living example of Murphy's Law, this has unfortunate consequences.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this sure isn't any of the like, five serious fics i'm supposed to be writing
> 
> have some porn

The problem began with some organics. In Megatron’s experience, most problems began with organics. Some solar cycles, he found himself almost wishing that he had succeeded in his quest to purge them from the multiverse, just so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the inane situations that arose whenever organics were involved. 

This was shaping up to be one of those cycles. 

\---

“We appear to be receiving a distress signal, Captain.” 

Rodimus looked up from where he’d been spinning idly in his chair, optics brightening. He opened his mouth to say something, but Megatron cut in before his co-captain could get a word out. “Where from?”

He resolutely ignored Rodimus’ pout as Ultra Magnus pulled up the communique on the bridge’s main screen. A grainy image appeared, apparently some sort of organic creature. It had mottled brown skin, and its optics were widened in what Megatron assumed to be distress. Megatron suppressed a frown at the sight; after centuries of genocidal warfare, he still felt a twinge of revulsion when faced with non-mechanical lifeforms. Now, however, was hardly the time to get into an argument about that particular issue. 

“The message originates from a planet bearing the designation Arturus IV,” Magnus continued, as the creature’s lips moved soundlessly on the screen. “They are requesting assistance from any passing vessel within range.” 

Megatron hummed, gesturing for Magnus to continue. When no more information was forthcoming, he quirked an optic ridge. “What exactly is the problem?” 

Magnus’ expression tightened in acute discomfort. “They… don’t say, I’m afraid. The message states only that there is an emergency of some kind.” Evidently, the lack of detail was grating on his sense of proper procedure.

“Given what little we know, I don’t see any reason to intervene,” Megatron said. 

“What? No!” Rodimus exclaimed, propelling himself from his chair. It continued to spin forlornly as the flame-colored mech stalked forward. He draped himself over Magnus’ shoulder to see the console, having to stand on the tips of his pedes to see even though Magnus was sitting down. Megatron restrained himself from pointing out that the same information was available on the main screen. Rodimus probably knew that, and was only pressed against the other mech because he knew it made Magnus flustered. 

“We’ve gotta help ‘em! It’s the Autobot way, helping those weaker than yourself and all that!” He gestured expansively, his optics glittering in a way that suggested he was having delusions of grandeur. If he was being honest, Megatron could hardly blame him. Nothing about this “quest” had gone as it should have, and there wasn’t a mech among them who wasn’t desperate for an easy win. 

“Especially you, Megs,” Rodimus continued, and it took Megatron a klik to realize that his co-captain meant _him_. “Don’t you wanna prove you aren’t still, y’know, a genocidal maniac? It’d be good for your image!” 

Megatron put his helm in his hands, cycling a ventilation. At times like this, he began to think that the _Lost Light_ and its captain were some cosmically ordained punishment for the role he had played in the war. “Fine,” he mumbled through his servos. “You’re free to go on your fool’s quest, if you wish. But I’m not coming.” 

Rodimus whined, an undignified little noise. Doubtless, he was worried that Megatron was usurping his authority. But Megatron wasn’t stopping him from going, after all, and his mood quickly brightened again. He leapt to his pedes, spinning in a little circle so that he faced the bridge screen. He spread his arms grandly, his field sparking excitement against Megatron’s own. 

“Well, what in the Pit are we waiting for? Let’s go!”

\---

Rodimus took some motley crew down to the planet’s surface, including such unlikely mechs as Tailgate and Rewind. Chromedome went along as well, since he could seldom be convinced to let the little historian out of his sight.

At least Rodimus had the good sense to leave Whirl behind; the helicopter was a catastrophe waiting to happen. And Rewind’s presence meant that Megatron got to see what was going down on the planet without having to rely on Rodimus’ reports, which were sporadic and unhelpful at best and nonexistent at worst. 

The inhabitants were large by organic standards, outmassing the minibots and reaching almost to Rodimus’ waist. They were large enough to pose a threat, though they didn’t seem inclined to do so. 

Megatron watched as Rodimus made some nonsense speech about ‘the beneficent Cybertronian race,’ which he wrapped up with a characteristic ‘til all are one’. His speeches had been so much more coherent when Drift had been writing them, and Megatron almost bemoaned the the swordsmech’s absence. 

Megatron briefly considered just leaving the bridge so that he wasn’t forced to endure this farce, but decided against it. Ultra Magnus would find out, somehow, and he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture about protocol.

“So!” Rodimus finished, clapping his hands together with a metallic _clang_ that made several Arturians jump, “How can we be of assistance?”

“We thank you for answering our desperate plea. Of late, our planet has been menaced by creatures which we have never seen before. We have no way of dealing with them, and thus must pin our hopes on you, benevolent strangers.” 

Back on the ship, Megatron frowned. It was unnatural that any group of people should so easily fall to its knees in supplication, especially to a group of strange aliens. He had spoken enough prettily-disguised lies to recognize one when he heard it. But he had no real basis for complaint, and so was forced to stew in uneasy silence as Rodimus eagerly agreed to help. Hardly a surprise; Rodimus probably would have agreed to anything if it meant improving morale. 

The Arturians handed over one of the least reputable maps Megatron had ever seen, which, they assured the crew, would lead them to the creatures’ lair 

What followed was a half-cycle of pure monotony. The paths clearly weren’t made for beings of Cybertronian size, so it was slow going. Megatron left to get some Energon rations, and when he came back Rodimus’ away team was still picking its way through the dense Arturian forests. 

Eventually, he turned his attention from the screen and pulled out a data pad. He might as well get some other work done, given that absolutely _nothing_ was happening planetside. Unsurprisingly, Rodimus had been ignoring his share of the reports. Megatron shook his head. His co-captain might leap at any chance to prove his worth in the field, but he acted like doing basic paperwork would cause his spark to spontaneously fail. 

He was slogging his way through some particularly tedious paperwork when he heard a shout. Setting the pad aside with palpable relief, he glanced over at the screen.

The away team was embroiled in a fierce struggle with several insectoid creatures. They were much larger than the Arturians, and they looked almost mechanical in nature. If Megatron didn’t know better, he would’ve sworn they were Insecticons. But there was no reason for mechs to exist on this backwater organic planet, and he dismissed the idea. 

On the screen, Rodimus flew through the air, entangled with one of the creatures. He managed to fire a burst of laser fire into its underside, provoking an agitated scream, before he disappeared from Megatron’s field of view. The image jerked sharply as Rewind dodged a charred insectoid appendage. The tiny mech might insist on joining the fight, but he lacked the heavy weaponry to truly be in the thick of things. 

The struggle ended just as quickly as it had begun, and with as little fanfare. The mechs stood in a ragged semicircle, surrounded by the motionless forms of their erstwhile enemies. They didn’t look much the worse for wear, though Rodimus dripped energon from a few minor injuries. 

As though sensing his gaze, Rodimus looked directly into Rewind’s camera and flashed a bright smile that cut right to Megatron’s spark. _Cocky fool_ , he thought, but he found himself smiling slightly in response. Idiot he might be, but one didn’t become the captain of a ship without some degree of infectious charisma. 

Still grinning blithely, Rodimus failed to notice the claw of a nearby ‘corpse’ creeping towards his ankle. It curled around the strut lightly, the creature clearly too weakened to exert any real effort. At the sensation, Rodimus gave an undignified yelp and flailed wildly, nearly falling over. 

Chromedome fired a round into the creature and it went limp, actually dead this time. Rodimus inclined his head in thanks, his expression sheepish. Back on the ship, Megatron’s smile widened. 

\---

The Arturians were intensely grateful. In Megatron’s view, they were almost _too_ grateful. But perhaps such suspicion was a wartime instinct, one that had no place in this new era of peace. 

He watched, head propped up on one hand, as the Arturians greeted their ‘saviors’. They made an inordinate amount of fuss over Rodimus’ minor wounds, insisting on patching them as well as they could with their limited knowledge of mechanical physiology. Doubtless, Ratchet would have to fix their ‘remedies’ once the team returned. Nevertheless, Rodimus preened at the attention. 

As they were making their goodbyes, one of the Arturians approached Rodimus. Megatron took him for a leader, or at least someone with a degree of prestige. He was no larger than the rest, but his skin was painted with intricate red spirals and his garb seemed of a higher quality.

The creature held out a case, clearly entreating Rodimus to take it. He did so, holding the small object in one yellow palm. At the creature’s urging, he pushed the case open and inspected the contents with bemused interest. 

“Um. Thank you for this. But, uh, I’m not exactly sure what it _is_?”

“It is an object of great significance to our people. We wish you to have it, as a token of our gratitude. We hope that it will bring you…” he paused, as though searching for the proper phrasing, “great joy.” 

Rodimus plucked the object from the case, rolling it between his servos. It appeared to be a sphere made of some dark material, and at Rodimus’ touch it flared with a brief flash of light. Megatron cycled his optics, but the light was gone as though it had never been. If Rodimus had noticed it, he gave no indication. Instead, he flashed another brilliant grin. 

“Cool!” he exclaimed. At the organic’s blank expression, he cycled his vocalizer and muttered, “I mean, I, uh, greatly appreciate your gift.”

He stowed the orb in his subspace and motioned for the others to break off their conversations. As the group made its way back to the shuttle, Megatron narrowed his optics. Prejudice or not, he didn’t trust these creatures. And he certainly didn’t trust the mysterious “artifact” they had seen fit to impart. In his experience, people didn’t willingly part with things that were precious to them unless something forced their hand. 

Megatron made a mental note to have someone take a look at the object when the crew made it back aboard the _Lost Light._

\---

Megatron had every intention of examining the object, or at least having Perceptor look it over, but the rest of the cycle quickly dissolved into turmoil. Whirl, perhaps upset by Rodimus’ decision to exclude him, had vented his frustrations by flipping a table in Swerve’s quasi-legal bar. Swerve had commed Megatron at that point, but Megatron could hear the sound of breaking glass in the background of the call and surmised that things had already gotten out of hand. 

By the time he made it down to the bar, the floor was a mess of spilled high-grade and half-conscious mechs. Whirl had apparently offlined himself at some point, either from overcharge, injury, or some combination of the two. Ultra Magnus was already there, talking to Swerve with a vaguely threatening expression as he pulled handcuffs from his subspace. 

The rest of the cycle was spent herding belligerent or unresponsive mechs into the brig, per Magnus’ orders. Privately, Megatron thought that imprisoning mechs for drunken foolishness was rather a waste of resources. He wasn’t about to have that conversation with the SIC, though. There was something about the mech that made even the ex-warlord wary. 

By the time they had finished, Rodimus’ shuttle had long since arrived and dispensed its crew. Megatron was exhausted and frankly not in the mood to deal with Rodimus’ unflagging exuberance. He could sort everything out next cycle, surely. Even if the “gift” carried some inherent threat, how much damage could it do in one night? 

He fell into his berth, slipping almost immediately into recharge. When he onlined, he’d deal with it. If there was a problem, he’d figure it out in the morning. 

\---

To his credit, Megatron certainly tried to follow up on his suspicions. Rodimus, as always, insisted on interfering with his plans. The co-captain wasn’t answering any of Megatron’s comms, which was frustrating though not particularly unusual. Neither did he answer Megatron’s knocking at his habsuite door, which meant that he probably wasn’t in his quarters. Despite his tendency to flaunt authority, he usually responded if Megatron or Ultra Magnus actually turned up on his doorstep. 

A couple quick calls confirmed that the flame-colored captain wasn’t in Swerve’s, and that he hadn’t been seen in the ship’s hallways recently. That meant, it seemed, that Rodimus wasn’t in the mood to be found. Which would’ve been fine, more or less, if he wasn’t due for a shift on the bridge. 

When Megatron reported to the bridge (precisely on time, as always), he found Magnus absolutely _fuming_. Which, because it was Magnus, was evidenced only by a slight downturn of the mech’s mouth and a certain tension in his field. Still, even Megatron found himself unconsciously tensing in wariness. For all his fuss about minutiae, the SIC was still an imposing mech. 

“Tell me, Megatron,” Magnus ground out, “how am I supposed to maintain order on this ship when even the captain can’t be bothered to show up for his shifts?”

Megatron chose not to point out that he was also a captain, and that he always showed up. 

“We indulge his foolishness,” Magnus continued, “the least he could do is carry out the most basic of his responsibilities!” 

Megatron made a noncommittal noise, edging slightly away from the mech’s growing anger. 

He cracked open the door to the office he and Rodimus shared, which still bore the faint outline of the flames Rodimus had painted on it, and sidled inside--

\--and froze. Rodimus, who had been ignoring his comms all cycle, was sitting at his desk. Yet, from Magnus’ anger, he hadn’t been on the bridge. Which meant, apparently, that he’d been here since _before_ his shift had started. 

Taking a closer look at his co-captain, Megatron noticed that Rodimus seemed distinctly unwell. There was a glazed look to his optics, which hadn’t moved at Megatron’s entrance, and his field felt strange where it lapped against Megatron’s own.

“Rodimus?” Megatron took a step closer, something approaching concern leaking into his voice.

Rodimus’ optics snapped to Megatron’s face, as though he had just realized that the other mech had entered. He slammed his hands on the desk’s surface, where Megatron noticed them trembling slightly. His field pulled back so suddenly that Megatron was left off-balance at its absence. 

“W-what do you need, Megatron?” Rodimus asked, the words set against a faint buzz of static. And now Megatron knew something was wrong; the question held none of the usual self-satisfied arrogance he had come to expect from his co-captain.

He closed the space between himself and Rodimus in a few measured strides, placing his hand gently against the other mech’s helm. The metal was burning hot, setting off several alerts in his HUD, but Megatron hardly had time to register the sensation before Rodimus leaned into the touch, a low moan forcing itself from his vocalizer.

Both of them froze. This close, Megatron could feel the heat of Rodimus’ ex-vents against his plating. The rumbling of the speedster’s engine vibrated through him from the point where their frames touched.

“Ah.” Megatron said, quirking an optical ridge. “So that’s what you’ve been doing all this time, instead of answering my comms.”

“Your…? Ah, slag! Megs, listen, this isn’t what it looks like!” 

There was the Rodimus that Megatron had come to know. “No? Because it looks like you’ve been in here getting yourself off while Magnus and I did your job for you.”

“Frag, _no_ ,” Rodimus said, but his face flushed at Megatron’s words. He reset his vocalizer. “It’s that fraggin’ rock, I’d bet. As soon as I picked it up, everything started to get all _itchy_. And that was, y’know, fine and all, but then it started _burning_ and I--I can’t--” With a pained noise, Rodimus pulled away from Megatron’s hand and rested his face against the cool metal of his desk. 

Megatron frowned. On one hand, this wouldn’t really be out of character for Rodimus. On the other, the whole situation with the Arturians had been incredibly suspicious. Anyway, if Rodimus had been self-servicing, Megatron decided that he’d probably just _admit_ it. Megatron had always pegged him as an exhibitionist. 

“Not that I’m encouraging your unprofessional behavior, but if it’s this much of a problem, why _haven’t_ you taken care of it?”

Rodimus groaned, pressing himself miserably into the desk. “Tried that. Only fixed it for a klik. And, I know you won’t believe me, but I do have _some_ sense of propriety.”

Megatron made a disbelieving sound, but didn’t press the issue. “Perhaps it’s time you went to see Ratchet, then. Can you stand?” He asked instead. 

“Ratchet?” Rodimus fidgeted uncomfortably. “Is that really necessary?”

“Given that your only other options are overheating yourself into a shutdown or spending the rest of your functioning self-servicing, I’d certainly recommend it.”

Rodimus didn’t respond, but the waves of heat spilling from his frame were answer enough. He levered himself up from the desk, struts wobbling noticeably. As he moved out from behind the desk, he held his hand over his interface array in a half-sparked attempt to hide the lubricant dripping from behind his panelling. The effort was somewhat hindered by his reluctance to touch his plating, for fear that any contact would make the problem worse. 

Megatron ex-vented carefully, flattening his plating against his protoform. He could remain professional about this, surely. But he hadn’t accounted for the way Rodimus’ field buffeted against his own, a wave of confusion and fear and lust that threatened to pull him under. _Primus_ , didn’t anyone teach Autobots to regulate their fields?

Rodimus looked up at him, his whole frame quivering slightly. But his, “Well, are we going or not?” held a touch of his usual arrogance. At the least, it meant that his higher processor functions were still operating on some level. 

“Yes, but you probably don’t want to leave looking like that.”

“Yeah, well, I can’t do anything about it even if I wanted to,” he hissed, averting his optics. He shifted, and more lubricant trickled down his thighs. 

Megatron looked down at Rodimus for another moment before ex-venting heavily. He offered a quick, vague prayer, before scooping the speedster into his arms. 

Rodimus shrieked, the sudden influx of sensation screaming through his lines. “M-megs--W-what--” he stuttered, vents kicking up several notches. Megatron resolutely ignored the feeling of fluid against his chestplate. 

“You can hardly walk about the ship in the state you’re in. What kind of impression would that make on the crew? This way, at least, you won’t look so thoroughly debauched.”

“Fine, fine, but I’d appreciate it if you’d do this _quickly_.” His voice was almost a whine. 

“Of course,” he said, stifling a chuckle. The situation was hardly funny, but there was something immensely gratifying about seeing the vain captain laid low. 

Shifting Rodimus to one arm, and stoically ignoring the strained sound the mech made, he pushed the office door open. He paused in the doorway. Somehow, he had forgotten that Magnus was on the bridge. Magnus was on the bridge, and Rodimus had been making some _thoroughly_ questionable noises. 

If he’d had less self control, he might’ve blushed. As it was, he strode through the room with the air of a mech with places to be. “Ultra Magnus, I’m taking Rodimus to the Medbay,” he said over his shoulder, once Magnus and his accusing optics were safely behind him. He was through the bridge door before the SIC could muster a response. That was probably for the best, all things considered. 

He readjusted Rodimus again, wrapping both arms around the mech. Rodimus whined unhappily, the purr of his engines vibrating against Megatron’s chassis. Megatron moved to pat him comfortingly, but decided against it at the last klik. It’d probably just make things worse. 

A handful of mechs cast curious glances their way, but their interest was generally dissuaded by the stern expression on Megatron’s face. Doubtless there’d be gossip later, but nobody interrupted them. It was the best he could hope for at this point. It occurred to him suddenly that he had been under no obligation to offer assistance. He could’ve left the office as easily as he had entered it, leaving Rodimus to steep in his own lubricants. 

He shook his head. What’s done was done; he could hardly abandon Rodimus at this stage in the proceedings. 

The Medbay doors were closed, but Megatron pushed them open with one broad shoulder. First Aid, who had been slumped against his desk and scrolling through a pad idly, shot upright. “Megatron? Is that-- is that _Rodimus_? Is he injured?”

“In a manner of speaking. Is Ratchet here? The matter is of a rather… sensitive nature.” He willed Rodimus to be still, and not to do anything incriminating. Thankfully, he seemed inclined to obey Megatron’s unspoken plea. 

First Aid hurried off, but Megatron had the distinct feeling that he was frowning behind his faceplate. He hadn’t wanted to offend the small medic, but he had more pressing matters to contend with at the moment. The urgency in Rodimus’ field was leaking into his own, and he shifted uncomfortably. 

“ _Don’t_ ,” Rodimus hissed, sounding like it was taking enormous self control to keep himself in check. Megatron was almost impressed; he hadn’t thought the reckless speedster possessed anything resembling self-restraint. 

Ratchet emerged from a door in the back of the Medbay which, Megatron expected, led to his quarters. Had he been asleep? It was mid-cycle, but the medic had been known to keep odd hours. Whatever the case, Megatron was sure he’d be less than thrilled at their current situation. 

“Ratchet,” Megatron said, inclining his helm in greeting. 

Ratchet crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. “Megatron. To what do I owe this delightful visit?” 

“It seems that Rodimus incurred some...problems, down on Arturus IV.”

Ratchet waved a hand dismissively. “I already fixed that slagged patch-up job those fool organic medics saw fit to inflict on him.” 

“No, it’s not that. There’s a different problem.”

“I see. And why, might I ask, are you holding him like a fraggin’ sparkling?” 

“It’s… related to the problem.”

“Is it, now.” Ratchet raised an optical ridge. “Well, you’re gonna have to put him down if you want any sort of diagnosis.” 

Megatron nodded, lowering his head until it was level with Rodimus’ own. “I’m putting you down now, so Ratchet can look at you. Are you going to be okay with that?”

Rodimus made a small sound that was probably all the assent he was going to get right now. As carefully as he could, Megatron laid Rodimus out on one of the medical slabs. The speedster bit his lip, but kept rather admirably quiet. 

As soon as Megatron had backed away, Ratchet approached the berth. He pulled a scanner from his subspace, running it over Rodimus’ overheated frame. Frowning at the readings, he set the scanner aside and began to prod gently at the mech’s plating, ignoring the half-suppressed sounds Rodimus made at the contact. 

Eventually, the medic straightened and glanced back at Megatron with narrowed optics. “What’d you say caused this?”

“The org-- the Arturians. Rodimus thinks it has to do with the artifact they gave him.”

Ratchet hummed, his gaze far away. “And where is the object now?”

Rodimus flexed his servos against the berth, in-venting shakily before mustering the energy to pull the sphere from his subspace. Primus. Megatron was going to have some _words_ with his co-captain about keeping potentially dangerous objects on one’s person. Or he’d have Magnus do it; that might be more intimidating. 

Ratchet picked the scanner back up, inputting a few pieces of data. He shook his head at the results. “You’re not gonna like this.”

“I-is your berthside manner always this charming?” Rodimus quipped, his smirk a wavering shadow of its usual radiance. For some reason, Megatron’s tanks shifted uncomfortably at the sight. If he didn’t know better, he almost would’ve thought that he missed Rodimus’ extravagant arrogance. 

“Well, the good news is that this isn’t permanent. You’ll just have to work off the excess charge.”

“And that entails what, exactly?”

“As you’ve probably guessed by now, given the state your array’s in, your systems are trying to burn the charge off through interface. I’d… suggest you follow their lead.” Ratchet was looking studiously at some point in the distance.

Rodimus’ vocalizer spit static, his optics flaring. “ _What_? I could’ve worked that out by myself, Ratchet! I don’t need you to tell me what my frame’s been demanding for the last cycle!”

Ratchet shrugged helplessly. “Look. Find someone, or don’t. It’s not as if you’ve never fragged anyone on this ship. Or you could try to handle it on your own, though I can’t promise you won’t burn out half your circuits doing that.”

“I can’t--just-- _proposition_ someone! This is a ridiculous situation, and, Primus help me, I’m not telling anyone else about it!” In his indignation, he almost sounded like his usual self. 

You don’t have to tell anyone else,” Megatron said quietly.

Two pairs of optics shifted to rest on Megatron, and he felt his plating crawl under the sudden scrutiny. When understanding didn’t seem to be forthcoming, the ex-warlord sighed. Apparently, he’d have to be more obvious.

“Due to circumstance, I already know about your… situation. Ergo, if you would be amenable to my company, nobody else needs to know.” Somehow, he had the distinct feeling that this situation had gotten away from him. He hadn’t meant to suggest that. He could admit that he found his co-captain attractive enough, but there was a great leap between that vague idea and the reality of the suggestion he had posed.

Rodimus’ made a strangled noise, and Ratchet clapped his hands to his audials. “That’s an image I didn’t need. So if you don’t mind, I’ll be taking my leave now.”

Ratchet beat a hasty retreat, pausing in the doorway to yell, “And no fragging in my Medbay!” before disappearing into his quarters. 

With that, Megatron and Rodimus were alone. Rodimus gazed up at him, his optics wide. “Did you-- were you serious about that?”

“I do not make offers I am not prepared to honor.” He might have, once, but that era was behind him now. 

“Right, no, of course you wouldn’t,” Rodimus mumbled. Suddenly, the arousal the speedster had been barely keeping in check unfurled in his field, battering against Megatron like a physical blow. He stumbled back a half-step, staring at Rodimus as a wave of heat shot through his lines. 

We should take this somewhere more private,” Megatron muttered, already moving to wrap Rodimus in his arms once again. Rodimus nodded frantically, his hands moving to press desperately against his modesty panels in an attempt to sate the imperative setting fire to his frame. 

They stumbled through the halls, Megatron hoping desperately that nobody was around to see them. He wouldn’t have known either way, too preoccupied with the mech squirming in his arms. “Can’t you be still?” He hissed. 

Rodimus hummed in answer, mouthing at Megatron’s neck cabling. He wound his arms around Megatron’s shoulders to afford himself a better grip, before returning his mouth to its task. 

“You’re an absolute terror, little Prime,” Megatron whispered, noting the way Rodimus’ servos curled tight against his backstrut at the epithet. He found himself wishing that he could see Rodimus’ face. 

And then they were at the door to Megatron’s habsuite, and then they were through the door, falling onto the berth in a tangle of limbs. Rodimus’ mouth was everywhere, his hands tracing burning paths across Megatron’s plating. For several kliks, Megatron’s processor went blank. Rodimus’ frame pressed flush against his own, his knees bracketing one of Megatron’s thighs as he squirmed against the larger mech. 

It took him an embarrassingly long time to remember that Rodimus was the reason they were here, that his frame was in danger of overheating at any moment. With a groan, he propped himself up on on one elbow, his other arm snaking around the speedster’s waist. Rodimus made a high-pitched noise of surprise as he was pulled forward along Megatron’s chest, but he made no move to resist.

Megatron pressed his lips to Rodimus’ open mouth, kissing him perhaps a bit more roughly than he had intended. Rodimus returned the kiss eagerly, glossa tracing along Megatron’s lips. He pulled back after a span that was far too brief.

“C’mon, Megs,” he panted, optics blown wide, “I thought you said we were gonna _frag_. Or have you forgotten how, in your old age?”

With a growl, Megatron shoved the flame-colored mech off his chest. His back hit the berth with a loud _clang_ , startling a yelp out of his vocalizer. Then Megatron was over him, one hand braced on Rodimus’ chest, his spread servos almost covering the entirety of his chassis. 

“What were you saying?” Megatron purred, leaning down to nip at Rodimus’ intake. Rodimus whined, trying futilely to thrust his hips against the weight pinning him down. His still-closed interface array was a blistering patch of heat against Megatron’s plating, and he could feel the lubricant leaking from behind the panels. 

“Megs, _please_.”

Megatron chuckled at the desperation in his tone, but obligingly slid down Rodimus’ frame until his face was level with the speedster’s interface array. His vents blew heat across Rodimus’ panels, and Megatron relished the full-frame shiver that shook the mech below him. 

He licked a stripe up the center of Rodimus’ panel, and it snapped open almost instantly. A gush of lubricant spilled from his newly unrestricted valve, pooling on the berth. Rodimus’ spike pressurized, and Megatron paused a klik to admire the sight.

Rodimus’ interface array was, unsurprisingly, as extravagant as the rest of him. It was bright red, perhaps redder than his plating, and accented with stripes of yellow and pulsing biolights. The same biolights surrounded his valve, and it looked like they even continued inside. He smiled almost fondly at the display of vanity, before lowering his mouth to lick carefully around the edges of his valve.

He took the burst of static from above as a sign that he should continue, and he plunged his glossa into Rodimus’ valve. Electricity crackled against his lips as he swept his glossa across over-sensitized nodes, and he felt Rodimus’ hands grasp tightly at his helm as the other mech curled forward. 

There was another rush of static, and then the _click_ of a vocalizer resetting. “W-what-- _Mm!_ \-- are you doing?” Rodimus managed.

Megatron pulled his mouth from Rodimus’ valve, quirking an optic ridge. “Unless the rumors I’ve heard are greatly exaggerated, you’ve had some experience with this sort of thing.”

Rodimus huffed in a way that was probably meant to sound upset, but instead just sounded mildly strained. His hips bucked up slightly against Megatron’s restraining hand. “I wasn’t being _literal_. I just figured you’d, you know, get right to the spiking part.”

“Would you rather I do that?” Megatron asked, moving his hand slightly so that one servo rubbed idly against Rodimus’ anterior node.

Rodimus moaned, shooting him a look that tried and failed to be irritated. “No, no, don’t _stop_. It’s just that most mechs don’t want to…” His vocalizer seemed to be struggling with the phrase ‘eat me out,’ and Megatron took pity on him.

“Well, that’s their loss,” he said. Rodimus looked like he wanted to ask what Megatron meant, but couldn’t find the words. That was probably for the best, as Megatron wasn’t entirely sure.

Putting the thought aside, he returned his mouth to the valve in front of him. Rodimus’ engine roared, a low-pitched purr that reverberated deep in his struts. The grip on his helm was tight enough to leave dents, but Megatron found that he didn’t care as much as he should. 

Rodimus’ hips lifted off the berth as Megatron’s glossa found a particularly sensitive cluster of nodes. Megatron pushed him back down with a growl, and Rodimus’ vocalizer issued a moan that was part frustration and part arousal. The biolights around his valve flickered frantically, a telling sign of his mounting charge

Rodimus’ valve clenched tight around his glossa, the speedster’s hands stiffening against Megatron’s helm. Then he was overloading, his vocalizer spitting static mixed with Megatron’s name. Lubricant spilled over his glossa, dripping down Rodimus’ thighs and Megatron’s chin. Megatron continued his ministrations through the aftershocks, then sat back to look at his handiwork.

Dim optics peered back at him. Lingering sparks leapt from Rodimus’ transformation seams, and transfluid was spattered across his chest. Absently, Megatron licked a stray trickle of lubricant from his lips. Rodimus’ optics snapped onto his face, a hungry expression replacing the post-overload haze

A leg wrapped around his waist, and in his surprise Megatron allowed himself to be pulled against Rodimus’ frame once more. Arms slid languidly around his chassis, rubbing small circles against his plating as Rodimus ground his still-dripping valve against Megatron’s modesty panels. 

And _Primus_ , the speedster was running hotter than any mech who’d just overloaded had any right to be. Clearly, whatever had affected him was nowhere near sated. His spike was already half-pressurized again, caught between their frames.

Megatron’s processor registered a desperate request to retract his interface panels, which he allowed without a second thought. Rodimus whimpered at the sensation of Megatron’s larger spike pressurizing beside his own, his ventilations hitching. 

“I seem to remember you saying something about spiking,” Megatron whispered, his hands finding the edge of Rodimus’ spoiler and sliding lazily along its surface. Rodimus arched against him, his spark hammering so heavily behind his chestplate that Megatron could feel it. 

“ _Please_ , I’m still--” Whatever he was going to say was cut off as Megatron’s spike found the edge of his valve, still slippery with lubricants, and slid inside. 

Even with the abundant fluids, it was a tight fit. Rodimus wasn’t small by any means, but Megatron was larger than the average mech. He paused, spike half-seated, to give Rodimus a moment to adjust. The speedster was trembling, his vents spilling heat across Megatron’s chest as his valve cycled down around Megatron’s spike. 

Megatron’s own fans cycled up a notch as he watched Rodimus squirm, trying to press the spike deeper inside himself. The motion aligned a set of nodes and receptors, and a rush of heat shot through Megatron’s lines. Engine rumbling, he wrapped his arms around Rodimus’ smaller frame and lifted him off his spike. Rodimus whined at the sudden emptiness, but the sound was overwhelmed by static as Megatron lowered him back down. He still wasn’t quite flush against Megatron’s hips, but that was as much patience as Megatron was willing to exert at the moment. 

He set a fast pace, Rodimus jolting in his arms. Each thrust produced a static-filled moan as the head of Megatron’s spike found his ceiling node. Somehow, amidst the motion of their frames and Rodimus’ debauched exclamations, Megatron had the presence of mind to wrap his hand around Rodimus’ spike. 

Rodimus’ optics blazed, his hands clutching desperately for purchase against the smooth, heated metal of Megatron’s chassis. It only took a few more strokes of Megatron’s servos and Rodimus was overloading again, his valve cycling down hard on Megatron’s spike. A few thrusts later, Megatron followed him over the edge. His spike pulsed, transfluid spilling into the tight heat of Rodimus’ valve.

“Frag, Megatron,” Rodimus groaned as Megatron gingerly extracted himself. His valve was a mess of fluids, and the rest of his plating wasn’t in much better shape. Neither was Megatron’s berth, now that he looked at it. 

That was a future problem, though, because the way Rodimus was squirming suggested that he still wasn’t done. He looked sheepish, or at least as sheepish as he could manage given the situation. 

“Is it too late to say I’m sorry about all this?”

Megatron tweaked the tip of Rodimus’ spoiler, grinning when the mech jerked at his touch. “While I would appreciate you curbing your recklessness, this is hardly the worst way I’ve spent a cycle.”

“T-that’s good to hear,” Rodimus said, his servos dipping to circle the rim of his valve. Even after two overloads, his field still pulsed with arousal and almost-painful need. “Because I’ve been a pity frag before, and it’s not a great feeling.” He was looking away now, determinedly avoiding Megatron’s gaze. 

Megatron frowned. He rested a hand against Rodimus’ cheek, nudging him slightly so that their optics met. The speedster’s hand stilled. “Rodimus. I won’t say that I would have chosen this, but I don’t regret it. As I said, I’m not in the habit of offering things I have no interest in. You’re attractive, as I’m sure you realize, and you’re beautifully responsive.” That was… perhaps more than he’d meant to reveal, but now was hardly the time for reservations.

Rodimus’ face flushed a deep pink, and he seemed to burn even hotter. “In that case,” he said, the grin on his face approaching manic, “What are we waiting for?”

In less than a kilk, Rodimus was pressed against him hungrily, the force of his attentions pressing Megatron back against the berth. Nimble hands traced his seams, plucking at the sensitive cabling beneath his armor. Heat shot up his backstrut, leaving a heady warmth in its wake.

“I thought this was supposed to be about you,” Megatron said, his hands clutched tight around Rodimus’ hips. The other mech’s energy was uncanny; shouldn’t he be tired by now? He'd overloaded twice, and Primus only knew how many times he'd gotten himself off before he realized that wasn't working.

“Mm,” Rodimus hummed against his chest, “Are telling me to stop?” 

Megatron glared at him, the self-satisfied fragger. “You know that’s not what I meant. Were it up to me, you’d never take those exquisite hands off my frame again.”

Rodimus ex-vented sharply, his hands jerking so hard that the motion raised a line of sparks along Megatron’s plating. That was...interesting. He shifted, maneuvering his hands between them and pushing Rodimus away so that he could get a better look at his face. Energon trickled slowly down his face from where he had evidently bit his lip, and his optics were fuzzed with static. His field was a wildfire, curling around Megatron and seeping straight to his very spark. 

Megatron’s engines rumbled, the low growl vibrating up his struts and shaking Rodimus as well. The speedster whimpered, his overtaxed fans stuttering. Propping himself up on one elbow, Megatron pressed his mouth to Rodimus’ intake. “Is that what you want, Rodimus?” He whispered, one hand creeping down to wrap lazily around Rodimus’ spike. “You want me to tell you how much I want that pretty spike of yours?” A sharp nip to to his main energon line wrenched a strangled whine from Rodimus’ vocalizer. 

Rodimus felt like he was going to shake apart above him. Megatron’s spark pulsed in sympathy, liquid heat coiling in his tanks. Rodimus’ earlier arousal had been nothing compared to this, to the way he was almost sobbing against Megatron’s chest. 

Megatron shifted so that his valve rubbed wetly against Rodimus’ spike, provoking a rush of static. The flame-colored speedster mustered his trembling struts long enough to align himself with Megatron’s valve, sliding easily inside. He pressed his frame against Megatron’s, as though willing himself to fuse into the heated plating. His hips moved forward in an agonizingly slow roll. 

With a great deal of rapidly-fading self control, Megatron held himself still. He had to remind himself, increasingly, that this was about _Rodimus_ and not himself. 

After a few wavering in-vents, Rodimus began to move in earnest. His hips snapped forward with a force that would have jolted a smaller mech, and Megatron’s valve clenched down tightly

“ _F-frag_ ,” Rodimus moaned. He set an arrhythmic pace, the room filling with the slick noises of wet metalmesh and the _clang_ of plating against plating. 

And, Primus, he really _was_ beautiful like this, his optics dimmed almost to the point of offlining as his hips danced against Megatron’s own. 

“You’re doing so well,” he growled, relishing the way his words made the other mech writhe desperately. He wanted to say something more, but the heat of his rapidly-building overload was clouding his processor. Some part of his mind panicked at the vulnerability, but he ignored it. There was no room for anything but the rough slide of Rodimus’ spike, the pressure of Rodimus’ hands, the all consuming fire of Rodimus’ field. 

“Come apart for me, little Prime,” he rumbled, his arms pressing Rodimus against him so that the words vibrated through his frame. 

Rodimus overloaded with a shout, his spike pulsing transfluid into Megatron’s aching valve. His valve cycled down, aligning nodes with receptors, and Megatron overloaded as well. Stray sparks jumped between them as Rodimus collapsed, strutless, against the broad expanse of Megatron’s chest.

There was a beat of silence, then two. When Megatron didn’t hear Rodimus’ fans spinning back up, he made a questioning noise. Rodimus groaned quietly, trying briefly to raise his head before giving in and leaving it pressed against Megatron’s plating. “I think it’s done, yeah. It better be, because I don’t think I can move for a while.”

Megatron hummed, absently stroking a hand along the sharp lines of Rodimus’ helm. “Were you planning on taking your spike out of me?” 

Rodimus made an embarrassed little noise, but didn’t move. Well, there were certainly worse sensations than the pleasant stretch of a full valve. 

There were questions, of course, that needed to be asked, and answers that needed to be given. But Rodimus’ optics were dimming, clearly on the brink of recharge, and Megatron’s own processor was still hazy. 

Megatron wrapped his arms loosely around the limp speedster, taking comfort in the slight purr of his cooling engines. They’d sort things out when when he onlined, he decided, letting the warm frame above him lull him into recharge.


End file.
